But That Was In Another Country
by Konstantya
Summary: It's 1948, and he's lost. Prussia-centric.


General Note: I'm only going to reformat my fics so much when this site is the one at fault. So if the formatting is weird, please check out my profile for more info. Thank you.

Obligatory (but ultimately pointless) CYA: I don't own it.

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**But That Was In Another Country  
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It's 1948, and he's lost.

They found him along the Bavarian Forest, leagues away from anything, weather-beaten and half-dead, as if he had not moved in months. The Roma people are many things—guarded, wily, superstitious—but they are still human, and they still have hearts. They take him in, if only until he can walk away on his own.

They do not like outsiders, but then again, he looks like no outsider they have ever known, with his angel-white hair and devil-red eyes and the hands of a mere man. He has no identification, no memory, no home. Only a frightfully old Iron Cross around his neck that he wears like some sort of anchor, though he knows it will do no good. No matter how long the chain, it will not touch bottom, and he will continue to drift.

The similarities are enough, then, for the Roma. They call him _Lalleri_—one who does not speak their language. They are still wary, but it's enough, then, for him. For now, at least.

For reasons he can't remember, he's good with a blade, better than good, and so when the caravan stops in a village, he throws knives as a way to earn his keep. The audiences _ooh_ and _ahh_ over the skill he can't help but flaunt—his routines ever-more dangerous, grandiose productions—and he grins back, sharp and cocky.

In those moments, it's almost alright that he can't remember his own name.

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-o-  
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It's 1951, and he's dreaming.

There is blood, and Iron Crosses, and the clang-crash of heavy blades, and the pungent salt-steel scent of his sweat mingling with his armor, and _he loves it—_

And he bolts up in bed, feverish, breathing heavily, but not exactly distressed. The Czech he shares a flat with, who was the one to wake him with a shake of his shoulder, pulls back, putting distance between them.

They are not friends. Barely acquaintances. Essentially strangers, who just happen to piss in the same toilet. They live together out of necessity, both of them working long days at shit jobs for shit pay to barely make the rent for this shit-hole that has the gall to be called an apartment.

"You were dreaming, man. You woke me up," the Czech complains.

He swallows, trying to focus, but weapons and war cries insist on lingering. "…Yeah. Sorry."

There is a pause, and in the dim light that pours through curtain-less windows, he can tell the other man is peering at him. Awkward. Curious. "So…what was it about?"

"Teutonic knights," he says without hesitation, and then wonders why he knows that so readily and so surely.

School, he thinks. He must have loved history as a boy. But he wracks his brain, and there are no memories of school desks, or ink wells, or text books. Just the dream-echoes of a Middle-aged battle.

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-o-  
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It's 1953, and he's drunk.

The place is a dive. Old and decrepit and probably only held together by the alcohol that has soaked in over the years. The beer is not particularly good, but it's still beer, however barely. Most importantly, it's cheap.

An idle melody tinkles through the haze of dim lights and stale smoke, and he turns around to find a man seated at a battered, upright piano that ages in the corner. He wears a navy-colored overcoat, the collar of his shirt sticking up white. Brown hair, and a rather handsome face, but his glasses are missing.

No, not missing. If he needed them, he'd be wearing them, right? He takes another long pull of his beer and shakes his head, trying to clear it, well-aware that the alcohol is doing nothing to help, and not caring.

"Hey," he barks to get his attention, stopping the piano's slow song, his voice ringing loud and harsh over the rest of the noise. "Can ya play Beethoven?"

The man goes from defensive to confused, probably because such a brash drunkard is requesting classical music, but then his face breaks into a wry grin that is completely out of place. Or _would_ be out of place, if he could remember who this pianist is supposed to be.

"Sure," he says. "Certain piece?"

_Something girly and frilly,_ he wants to say, dourly, as if it should fit, but instead he says, "Anything."

The composition the brunette plays is familiar, though he can't name it. Not because it has been lost to him, but because he never cared in the first place, he suspects, and the more he listens, the more he finds he wants to punch the guy—narrows his eyes and almost thinks that he might regain a memory if he did. Instead, he downs the rest of his beer, too quickly, slaps a bill or two on the bar top, and stumbles out.

The notes ring dizzily in his head, though they are played differently, with more finesse, taunting him.

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-o-  
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It's 1956, and he's fighting.

He knows, intrinsically, that it will do no good. The workers of Poznań will get no better conditions. The Communist party will not be ousted. But, really, he is not there to protest, anyway. He is there to fight.

Instigating barroom brawls has become something of a hobby for him. If he can gather a crowd (which is easy, with a demeanor such as his), it's almost a guarantee bets will be placed, and it's a quick way to earn smokes or booze or even money, and twenty times more exciting than working fish markets or meat factories or as a docking hand. The black eyes and the bloody knuckles are worth it.

He has begun to think he fights _because_ of the black eyes and bloody knuckles.

He fights because he likes sweat-slicked hair and the pulse of adrenaline. He fights because it is so damn _satisfying_ to win, which he does, and often.

He fights because, in a world where he has no place and no past, it's the only thing that feels natural.

And so, while Poznań's motivation is far more political than he's used to, it matters little to him.

A fight is a fight is a fight.

The secret police have begun to fire and chaos is setting in, and through the crowd he catches sight of a short blond, his mouth so firm, so futilely determined, and he _knows_ that face—_knows land partitions with Specs and the Ruskie_—

But then it's gone, and so is the man, lost in a sea of adversity and repression.

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-o-  
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It's 1958, and he's cold.

It's winter, and he can't afford gloves, so he fumbles with numb fingers, trying to get his black-market cigarette to light. Even nature is against him, because the stiff wind has already blown out two of his steadily-dwindling matches, and he rounds a corner, turning in toward the brick, hunching his shoulders like some sort of shield.

It lights—praise God, it actually _lights_—and he barely has enough time to take one relaxing drag before a crash of noise diverts his attention.

A woman on the street has dropped her groceries. It seems he was the cause, because she's staring at him, open-mouthed, wide-eyed, as if she's seeing a ghost.

His own mouth parts, his cigarette lost to the dirty, frozen ground, because he _recognizes_ her, her light-brown hair, her green eyes, the flower in her hair that blooms even in January…

Her name, he thinks, her name—tries to mentally beat it out of the depths of his subconscious, but it will not come.

She's Hungarian. That's the only thing he can think of. She's Hungarian.

"Gilbert," she whispers.

It both fits and doesn't, not entirely, and he goes to her, grips her shoulders—maybe for support, maybe so she can't disappear like the Pole before her. He shakes his head, red eyes intent and searching. "My real name."

She blinks at him and then it comes out softly, like some prayer or curse:

"Prussia."

With a sense of horror spilling into his veins, he realizes that doesn't fit either, not entirely.

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It's 1958, and he remembers.

_Hungary,_ he knows her name is, sometimes called Elizaveta, but she is _Hungary,_ just as he is Prussia, _was_ Prussia, and he kisses her because he's found himself—because he's found himself and_ he doesn't exist._ He kisses her because he's maybe feeling his knees about to give out and he needs something life-affirming, something painful or pleasurable, and he can't gather his wits enough to think about fishing for his pocketknife so he can cut his palm.

He kisses her because he realizes that he always wanted to, for centuries when she lived with that four-eyes Austria—_Austria,_ no wonder he wanted to punch that pianist—and if he fades away in this moment, he'll never get another chance to.

He kisses her as a man to a woman, because that's all he dares to act as now, and it's rough, but not unkind. She gives a start of surprise, and after a moment, he pulls away, strangely gentle, callused hands cupping her cheeks, a thumb running over her skin before he lets them drop.

He shakes his head again, dejectedly, his shoulders slumping, like a king without a kingdom, though it's really more like the other way around. "That's not my name anymore."

She's still a little too shocked to be offended, and she stares up at him, as if she's searching for something that's missing.

"No," she agrees, perhaps sadly, "it isn't."

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-o-  
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It's 1958, and he's found.

They gather her spilled bread and walk to her home in silence. He follows her awkwardly, conscientiously, because he remembers their history, knows that she does not like him, barely tolerated him when necessary.

But that is in the past, when he was still his own country. And though she technically keeps her own house, she has to tend to it according to Russia's rules. They are both in sorry states, but there is something familiar about old enemies who were once even older friends.

Beggars can't be choosers, and familiarity is as close to comfort as they can get.

She makes tea, and he sits in her dingy kitchen and drinks it simply because it's something to do. She puts her meager groceries away, fidgets her fingers, then turns around and finally asks.

"…Where have you _been?"_ Hushed. Astonished.

"All over the Bloc," he says, then laughs, once, harshly. "It's not like I have a home to go back to. Shit,"—and he rakes a hand through his hair, stretches a long leg out into the middle of the floor, talks out of nervousness—"I can't even go crash at West's. Have you talked to him?" There is a note of not-often-heard anxiety buried in the question.

She speaks carefully. "I…I've heard he's doing well. Well enough, at least. Russia…doesn't let us talk directly. Even the telephones are tapped."

He slouches dejectedly. "Yeah, that's what I figured," he mutters, looking out the window in disgust. "Fucking Ruskie."

He's a country without land, or citizens, or a leader, and he can't even see his stupid little brother—who was, to the last of his knowledge, going through quite a bit of post-war hell. Fucking great.

Her expression turns contemplative. "East," she tries.

"Yeah?" comes the automatic, gruff response. After a short pause, he blinks. Hungary smiles wryly.

The nation who was once Prussia grins, sharp and cocky.

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Historical Notes:

-The Prussian states were effectively dissolved in 1934-1935, when it became part of Imperial Germany, under Nazi rule. It was only after WWII, in February of 1947, that the country of Prussia was _officially_ dissolved, the majority of its territories becoming parts of East and West Germany.

- Poznań: about the Poznań protests, where the Poles went on strike to demand better working conditions. It turned into an uprising against communism, which was then violently put down. By some 400 tanks.

-The land partitions refer to the partitioning of Poland in the latter part of the 18th century, where Prussia, Russia, and Austria decided to gang up on Poland and steal all the land. (Fun!)

A/N: Normally when I write fics with pairings, the pairing is in my head from the start. But with this one, that PrussiaxHungary bit just popped up out of nowhere. Like I was writing, and Prussia just said, "Fuck it, I'm gonna kiss her! Because I'm awesome like that!" and I was left going, "Buh…wha…er…okay, then…I guess you are." It was kinda strange. XD

Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed it. :)


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